Calya stilled. She knew that voice. Recognized its ability to carry, to cut through all manner of external noise. A quality that would’ve been fitting for a commander, or someone worth addressing a crowd.
Anyone but Calya’s ex-business partner. Her sister’s ex-fiancé.
Brint fucking Avenor. Here, in Renstown. In the Valley. Why? Frankly, Calya was surprised he was allowed to set foot in the Valley of Sylveren after the trouble he’d caused at the region’s hallowed university.
“…had to… in person,” the Rhellian man muttered, jerking his head to indicate they should leave. Calya heard only snippets of their conversation, the words tumbling amidst the ambient noise of the market crowd: “…letters can’t put off… eval forever.”
A Rhellian man in the Valley was nothing out of the ordinary, but one meeting with Brint? Highly suspect.
Keeping a respectful distance, she followed Brint and the other man. They strolled away from the market, following the stone road that skirted the edge of town. They climbed a short flight of steps to the main square, but instead of heading into the busy street, they paused at the railing overlooking the port.
Hovering at the bottom of the stairs was too far to hear more than snatches of their hushed conversation, so Calya nonchalantly walked by.
“It’s fine,” Brint grumbled, hands gripping the railing. “I have everything?—”
“We’re all fucked. It’s just a question of how…” The other man lowered his voice even more until Calya had passed.
She ducked beneath the portico of a building across from where the men stood, keeping her hood pulled far forward. Tucking herself into the meager cover provided by the stone forming the side walls and open entrance, Calya closed her eyes to better focus on the men’s conversation.
“…out of my hands. I couldn’t lie to Saren’s face!” The other man dragged a hand through his hair in frustration, knocking his hood back. Definitely Rhellian, and he lacked the polish Calya was used to seeing in his countrymen. Rhell culture tended toward staid and very put together. Nicer people would’ve called it timeless, classical; Calya tended to think of them as fussy and snobbish, where exceptions had more a tendency to prove the rule than flout it.
Given the Rhellian’s tatty workman robes, which bore more than a few stains from dirt and who knew what else, Calya pegged him as a grovetender. One not so wholly loyal to Sylveren University, apparently. Or perhaps a broke grad student yielding to the burden of debts.
“What do you think we’ve been doing?” Brint said, scorn thick in his voice. “You should’ve warned me. I could’ve intercepted?—”
“I wouldn’t have had to if you kept your people on a tighter leash,” the other man snapped back.
“Song’s not here to save you,” he hissed. “We can’t fix it?—”
“Save me? She got herself caught,” Brint scoffed. “And because you couldn’t stop a godsdamned letter, the fucking Sentinels are sniffing around about the fucking Landing. If she finds out, you can bet she’ll stick her nose in. Anything to do with her precious company and?—”
A hand grasped Calya by the forearm. “What are you doing?”
She reacted on instinct. Or rather, tried to. For several years, Calya had trained under a self-defense instructor, an expatriate from one of the islands far south of Graelynd. With umber skin and a voice like iron, the grizzled older woman hadn’t minced words or encouraged Calya to form any delusions of attaining martial prowess. They’d drilled in a few basics—only what a young woman aggressively pursuing her business dreams in the meat grinder that was Graelynd’s Central District should know.
Her instructor would’ve been disappointed to see her now.
Calya did manage to stomp on her assailant’s instep, earning a grunt of pain. Rammed her elbow into his gut, too, though she scraped across what felt like a buckle and probably hurt herself more than her target. She knew she was supposed to flee; her instructor hadn’t fooled around on that point. Make an opening and run. No pausing. A pause was an opportunity for thought to creep in. For Calya to think, and get mad, and want to win because she was a horribly graceless loser.
But she knew that voice, too. She paused, and instead of fleeing she found herself pressed up against the wall as Nocren Lowe loomed over her.
“Hello, ranger.” Calya planted her hands on Lowe’s chest and tried to move him. “You’re kind of?—”
He caught her by the wrists, holding her fast. In a mild tone, he asked, “Miss Helm. Why are you skulking in the temple entrance?”
“Because I didn’t want to draw attention. Obviously,” Calya said. “No thanks to you.”
“I didn’t realize espionage was one of Helm Naval’s services.”
“This is a personal—” Calya peeked under his arm. “Oh, shit.”
She’d only turned her head a fraction, but out of the corner of her eye, she noted how Brint and his conspirator had gone quiet as they glanced over their shoulders. The other man nudged Brint, gesturing for them to leave. Brint only took a step after him, hanging back as he peered toward the spot where Calya and Lowe stood.
Another few steps and he’d be close enough to recognize her despite the scant cover of the portico and the big ranger standing over her.
At least one of those things could be put to better use.
Her hands were still splayed across Lowe’s chest, her wrists still ensnared. She leaned into his hold, chin lifting as she met his gray eyes. “Kiss me.”
